


Reflections

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Southern Comfort [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Time, History, Innuendo, M/M, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Zine: Wounded Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-01
Updated: 2010-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan needed someone to talk to after Richie died and Methos vanished, and Matthew McCormick walked by. No one expected the results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Rated: NC-17 for m/m interaction. If you are under age, or this isn't your cup of tea, hit 'back'. Flames will be laughed at uproariously and probably passed around and critiqued for grammar, originality, and style.  
> Two last things. One -- this one is dedicated to Devo, who edited it; to Sundara, who put out the lovely zine that inspired it; and to Killa who did the gorgeous artwork. Thank you all for pleasure of working with you. And two -- ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Innuendo Wars (TM pending ;-&gt;). This is Round One.... 

"How many times did you want to give in?" Duncan MacLeod mused, his words no more disturbing the silence of the nearly empty room than the gusts of wind did. Within that stillness the marble statue seemed to contemplate his sole visitor with the same grave attention that Abraham Lincoln had given to matters when he lived, his face intensely compassionate and yet simultaneously somber almost to the point of brooding. The man who stood there, shoulder propped against the wall as he studied the long-dead president, would have been very surprised to know how closely his own expression mirrored the same concerns and emotions.

"You lost more elections than you won. You went bankrupt once. You buried a son, and twice you buried your own political ambitions for what you saw as the common good. You spent five years doing a hard job well while people called you an ape, and a rube, and a backwoods savage." The immortal had heard such words directed at himself, more than once; he was intimately familiar with the way they burrowed in under the skin and stung all out of proportion to the injury.

Duncan shook his head, startled once more when his hair didn't pour across his shoulders and throat as it should have. He still wasn't used to the shorter length which would undoubtedly be a blessing in summer. Now, though, the chill of the October winds made him long for that silky weight back, and he shook his head again, restless under the lash of his own barely controlled emotions. The sky outside the monument matched his mood too well: dark, grey, and hovering on the verge of rain without ever giving in to that release.

The weather had been unseasonably warm that April day in 1865, he remembered; the flowers had bloomed early as if to celebrate the first peace in five years. The celebration had died early as well, killed by that fatal shot from the stage and "_Sic semper tyrannis_!" from an actor who had never truly lived under a tyrant. Not compared to what the Earl of Rosemont had done to the Scots years before or what Hitler did to the people of Europe years later.

He glanced back up at the statue, speaking as casually as if to an old friend chance met on the streets. "They're trying to slander you again. Now someone is claiming that you and Speakes were lovers simply because you shared a bed. God forbid they actually do some research and find out that beds were expensive, and that you were broke for years paying off that debt."

Memories of no few shared mattresses and blankets spun across his mind: curling up by a fire in a pile of furs and tartans with Connor, exhausted from his clansman's training sessions, or sleeping in a mound of sheepskins and tartans with Warren Cochrane while they both hid from English soldiers. He had slept with other men hundreds of times, he supposed, whether it was to fight off the cold or have the comfort of a warm body beside him on a night he could have been dead from bullets, or cannon shell, or some stray immortal more interested in the Game than a war. Sharing a bed hadn't made them lovers, either.

"Well, that might depend on the definition of 'lover' I suppose," he murmured, a smile easing across his lips for a few moments as he remembered drunken evenings and a few warm mornings here and there, too, when he and Fitz had traded handjobs, simply for the pleasure of someone else's flesh on their own. The memories called an answering warmth in the present, and he shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed to be getting a hard-on in a national monument.

Fitz, of course, would have thought it was hysterically funny, and Methos? He could imagine the other man's hazel eyes laughing at him over a face too prim and proper to be accused of any such thing. But it was Tessa's teasing voice that he could almost hear, offering to find a more private corner where she could take care of it for him....

"Tess," he sighed, eyes closed as he tried to remember the smell of her hair and the soap she used to like. China Rain, that was the name of the stuff, even though it smelled nothing like rain in Peking. But she'd loved the stuff. "I still miss you, love."

Her death didn't hurt as much anymore, he noticed with a faint regret. The memory of her motionless body lying in the street, blood still seeping from the bullet wound, had become a familiar ache, an old wound he'd picked and probed at like pushing a loose tooth around with his tongue. Reminders of the happier times, on the other hand, kept hitting him when he least expected it and where he was most vulnerable.

A lost tourist irritably asking his wife where the map was had sounded so much like Tessa's father that he'd turned to see a short, chubby man who had too much hair to be Jean-Marc Noel. The clean-lined style of a street vendor's silhouettes had forcibly reminded Duncan of one of Tess's sketches that he'd loved so much she'd framed it for his birthday. It was safely packed away in Paris, now, and, unreasonably, he wanted to haul it out and look at it, even knowing that he couldn't. As simple a thing as the smell of his morning coffee today had reminded him of her because it wasn't the dark Italian cappuccino she'd loved so much.

So he'd fled to the Lincoln Memorial hoping that nothing there would remind him of her. It wasn't working.

"You'd fuss to see me brooding like this, Tess. That or throw me out and tell me not to quit running until I was in a better mood," he told the air, keeping his voice quiet out of habit rather than need. The combination of an unseasonably cold autumn storm and the fact that it was a workday was keeping other tourists out of the memorial. Not too many people wanted to spend a Thursday afternoon dodging sleet and the biting winds that the long narrow stretch of the reflecting pool channeled into the open-fronted memorial. To a Highlander, though, it was merely... brisk. Almost refreshing, and downright homey, and the perfect environment in which to reflect.

"Some days I think nothing has been right since you died. Darius is dead, and Rebecca. At least those aren't my doing, but... I killed Rich, Tess. I didn't mean to, I didn't think it was him, but that doesn't bring him back, either." He forced himself to keep going, making himself face the most recent betrayal just as squarely. "And I may have killed my friendship with the Old Man, too. I should never have judged him on Cassandra's word alone."

Habit kept the name Methos off his lips even in the apparent quiet of the memorial, and he smiled ruefully at that, eyes half-closed as he tried to picture Methos' face, wondering what the older immortal would think if he did apologize for his recent behavior, or at least try to explain. Looking back, Duncan knew damn well he should never have believed Methos' words about his time with the Horsemen over his actions since, no matter how hard Methos had tried to convince him. _And you tried, didn't you? 'I killed ten thousand.... It was because I liked it.' What did you expect me to do, Methos? You set me up to be judge and jury, damn it -- so why do I feel like I'm the one who should apologize? And God, that mess with Byron...._

_Damn it, just once couldn't the old bastard actually say something? Hell, I'd settle for insults. That would at least be some place to start from. Tessa would have been so pissed off, and yelling so loudly, that all of Paris could have listened in on the fight. Methos...._

_Methos just vanishes._

"Why didn't you pick a fight? I let the Horsemen come between us, and Keane stay between us, and then I top it off by killing one of your old lovers. And you never argued with me. Hell, you called me six kinds of idiot when Kristin came to town, but you didn't say a word when I was being stupid where you were concerned. And the one time you did ask me to stop.... The worst of it is that I didn't challenge Byron over you."

Duncan snorted softly, too involved with his argument to remember that the other man wasn't there to hear it. "Oh, the first flare-up at Joe's bar... yeah, that was over you. And you knew it, and I did. Hell, Byron saw it and goaded me on. Joe should have sold librettos for that opera. But Byron killed Mike, Old Man. He was bored, and jaded, and looking for one last thing that would fill that empty space in his soul, the one the poetry used to live in. What was it you said about Kristin? Somebody had to."

He glanced out at the ominously darkening afternoon. "Just the kind of weather you hate, too." The irony of that thought made him chuckle, and he glanced up at the massive figure above him. Usually Lincoln's statue and the constant ebb and flow of respectful curiosity within this building could pull him out of the dark brooding mood that, like so many Celts, he was prone to. And on this day in particular, he needed it. Five years ago, a continent away, in weather all too close to this, Tessa Noel had gone down under a mugger's gun and never stood up again.

"Tess...." A small flood of remembrances, both good and bad, poured over Duncan at the sound of her name. Her 30th birthday came to mind immediately and a rueful smile crossed his face. She'd been so homesick for France that he promised her a trip home for Christmas. That had been a disaster. Her father had all but demanded to know when they were going to settle down and get married; her mother had dropped blatant hints about grandchildren.... Tessa had stayed calm in front of them, but alone in their room had been another matter. Duncan could still remember the feel of her tears on his fingertips where he'd brushed them away, the salt on his lips where he'd kissed them away while she was cradled in his arms.

The Scot sighed and raked strong fingers through damp hair as he tried to sort the strands back into place out of old habit; for a moment he was unsure if it was rain or tears he was feeling on his palms. His hair wasn't really long enough to get out of hand now, although the front would need to be trimmed soon. That, or he'd have to resign himself to the nuisance of letting it grow out enough to tie back easily. He found himself wondering what Methos would think of the new style and snorted in irritation that he couldn't simply ask him.

"I think you're the nuisance, Old Man, not my hair. I came in here to try and stop brooding over Tessa. So instead I brood over both of you. Great. I wonder what you'd make of him, Tess? Or what you'd think about my being in love with a man?"

A rueful smile quirked across his face. "Knowing you, you'd say it took me long enough. Four centuries to fall in love with a man, four years to admit I love this one... and I figure it out after I chase him away." He shook his head and ruffled his hand through the short-clipped hair again, remembering how disgusted he'd been with himself when Methos had simply vanished after Byron's death.

"A thousand and one regrets, Old Man? My total is still in double digits... but I think I understand a bit better now. I thought I drove you off. Maybe I did. Maybe I'm a thick-headed Scot who doesn't know how to shake off guilt for something that wasn't entirely my fault, or when to stop asking for answers I don't want to hear."

A stronger gust of wind brought the smell of rain with it, and a sharp, biting taste that told Duncan it was going to get much colder, and much wetter, very soon. He tucked his hands into his pockets, wrapping his coat around him as the weather had wrapped around the city, and the increasing warmth matched the rising heat of his irritation. "Maybe. Or maybe you decided to hit every button you could find on me. I want to know why you did that, and why you left, Old Man. On second thought, I think it's time I quit giving you so much space. I may not be sure what I want, but I don't know what you want, either, and I think I'd better find out."

Duncan straightened abruptly, relinquishing the slouch against the monument wall to stand upright against another airy warning of the approaching rain. Out of an ingrained respect, he nodded to the statue of the man who had done what was necessary to keep his own 'house' intact, speaking to it as to someone who could hear. "You said 'A house divided against itself cannot stand.' I'll work on seeing where my roof went off to this time."

The immortal headed down the steps to the reflecting pool on the mostly abandoned Mall, still turning problems over in his mind. Joe was waiting for him back at the hotel, he knew, but Duncan had told the Watcher he might be awhile, and it was too cold and damp to drag the bluesman out. Joe Dawson, Watcher par excellence, had acquired a chest cold, and the damn thing had settled in for a long, nasty visit. The doctor recommended by the hotel had muttered about respiratory infections and put him on antibiotics and codeine while sternly forbidding him to set foot on an airplane for at least five days. The nurse had been kind enough to tell Duncan the closest pharmacy that would fill the prescriptions. And rather than take Joe back to the Holiday Inn in Burleith, Duncan kidnapped him.

It was extremely easy; he just drove to his hotel instead, and asked the desk clerk at the Four Seasons if there was possibly an extra room for a sick friend who was in town to meet him? And would she please bill both rooms to him? The hotel had been quite happy to oblige, and the only real problem had been his worry that Joe's string of complaints would start the Watcher coughing again.

Once Duncan had taken the Watcher up to his room, which was just down the hall from his own, and gotten him settled, he'd gone back to the Holiday Inn and packed the other man's gear. The temptation to look through his journal had made his fingers itch as much as Amanda contemplating a new jewelry display. But while Duncan knew parts of it were about him, they were still Joe's private writings. So in the end, he had left it untouched and unread, with a rueful smile for his 'Boy Scout' habits and a more irritating certainty that sooner or later he'd probably regret it.

"Boy Scout." Duncan shook his head as he said it; he could still hear the affectionate scorn in Methos' voice the first time he'd called him that. "Maybe it's time we quit calling each other names and started talking. But where are you?"

The Scot glanced around the mostly deserted green stretch of the Mall, the long open park which ran among the Memorials and the Smithsonian museums on its way to the Capitol building. The wind-ruffled grey water of the reflecting pool called him, the spreading circles of raindrops eaten almost immediately by the waves in a hypnotic show that slowed his stride as he walked. He sighed and surrendered to the day; this was as good a place to plan his search for Methos as any other.

Sweeping the accumulated water off a bench somehow felt like wiping a slate clean, and Duncan smiled at the thought as he sat down to enjoy the rain on his face, the clouds above him, and the memories and plans roiling through his mind. Maybe he should go to New York, and ask Connor to help? His cousin would laugh at the mess he'd gotten into, but he'd help anyway.

And just as he reached that decision, the presence of another immortal rippled across his skin.

There was almost no one else on the Mall at the moment, and Duncan stood to see who the other immortal was, uneasily aware that to a practiced eye the few other people moving around on the open green were obviously not fighters. And sitting facing the pool left him exposed, his back to half the world.

A trench coat-wrapped figure paused on the gravel path, then inclined his head in an almost courtly gesture and sauntered toward him. A slow smile spread across Duncan's face as he recognized the tensed shoulders and rangy stride, the stubbornly curly brown hair and seemingly perpetual trace of stubble on the other man's face. "Matthew McCormick."

A second nod, and a smile tilted the corners of the other immortal's mouth. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. What are you doing in D.C.?"

"Thinking."

That drew a quick snort of laughter and Matthew looked down at the damp ground under his feet for a moment before grey-green eyes studied the grey sky above them. "Getting wet, I'd say. I'd have thought you were old enough to come in out of the rain." Amusement layered his voice as thickly as the Southern accent which only drew out the vowels without slowing his speech.

Duncan teased him back, spirits suddenly lighter for the friendly encounter. "This poor excuse for a storm? To a Highlands man, it's nothing more than a fine drizzle."

"Well, MacLeod, some of us grew up in the English forests, and we usually got in under the trees when it was raining. Mind, the Celt who taught me was as bad as you are for the wet."

That drew an interested look from the Scot. "I knew you trained Carl Robinson, but he never mentioned who trained you."

"An Iceni lady named Ceirdwyn."

"I know her. She's a good woman. You heard her husband was dead?"

"Mmm-hmm. She told me. Also said you talked her out of doing anything too foolish when he was murdered. So what are you doing in D.C.?"

"Visiting him," Duncan replied, gesturing with his chin toward the Lincoln Memorial. "Like I said -- thinking."

Matthew raised one eyebrow, politely restraining his curiosity as he commented, "A good place for it, if a bit gloomy. Done for a while?"

"Why?"

"Because, MacLeod, I was thinking that if you're going to insist on being out in the weather, I might walk with you. There's some fine Italian food half a mile north of here if you'd like."

Duncan chuckled and, without thinking about it, fell into place at Matthew's right as easily as he would have with Methos or Connor. "Taking in strays?"

"Turnabout is fair play. You took Carl in when he needed it," Matthew pointed out calmly as they walked. "So what are you thinking about that calls for weather like this?"

"Shouldn't you be at work? And Carl's a friend of mine."

"Compensatory time off, MacLeod. I just wrapped up a case and have the afternoon off since I haven't seen a weekend in a few weeks. And you'd do the same for anyone who took care of one of your students."

The sleek, water-sheened blackness of the Vietnam Memorial stopped them, and they both turned to pace slowly along the panels in identical, intent silence. Even in the rain and cold there were a few people looking for names of those lost and mourned, and fresh flowers lay here and there on the pavement, left under the names of the departed.

Duncan finally broke the silence. "Lose friends over there?"

"A few," was the quiet reply as Matthew paused by the fifth panel and gently traced a name. His finger drew the rain drops out of the engraved letters to slide in silent tears down the polished stone to the next name. "But I think most of us did."

It was a long walk along the stone memorial for Duncan, made longer by the bleakness the monument called up in him. For hundreds of years Darius had tried to convince people that war was futile, that understanding and good faith could bring about peace in the oddest places. And still mortals threw their short lives into wars, fighting for courage and the girl next door, for the respect of the other members of their units or because it was better than jail.

That drew a reluctant smile. Tessa had agreed with Darius that Vietnam was a wasted effort by the French and the Americans both. No great surprise; two of her cousins had died there, one in each army. _What was his name again...?_

Lost in memories as he was, trying to rehear that early morning discussion -- _What brought it up? A book review?_ \-- it took McCormick's surprisingly warm hand on his shoulder to remind Duncan of the other immortal's presence. "MacLeod? You all right?"

The Scot mentally shook himself, but he made no attempt to get out of Matthew's grip, strangely unwilling to lose the contact. _Brilliant, Duncan, that's a sure way to lose your head. But I'd forgotten how good a friendly touch feels._ Out loud he told the other man, "I'm fine, thanks. Just... thinking."

That inspired answer drew a highly skeptical look, but McCormick only commented, "Sometimes, MacLeod, talking and listening is a much better idea than thinking."

"Maybe." But he smiled to reassure the other man, and Matthew went back to whatever name he'd been looking for.

_This would be easier if I knew what I'm looking for. Hell, what's Methos looking for? I know I want him, but I have no idea if he's even interested in being my lover. Somehow, I doubt a relationship with him would be as... uncomplicated as what Fitz and I had._ He snorted softly at the idea. _As if anything with the Old Man is ever anything but complicated?_

_Great. I don't really know what I'm doing, and I don't know what he wants to do. We need to talk -- if I can find him.___

Duncan paused at the end of the Wall and waited for Matthew to catch up. The other immortal had stopped to smile at a teddy bear someone had left sitting on the pavement, a Purple Heart pinned to its chest. The bear wore an oversized USMC baseball cap, possibly to protect it from the rain, and the stuffed animal had a distinctly rakish air sitting there, as if waiting for someone to appreciate it properly. Matthew carefully adjusted the bear's hat to cover it better before walking over to Duncan.

"Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm. That bear...." The Scot couldn't help smiling, both at the toy and at the absurdity of an FBI agent straightening it up so deliberately. Somehow he was certain Matthew was that careful with children, too, and anyone else needing help. That protectiveness was undoubtedly why he went into law enforcement, Duncan decided.

"I know. The medal will go to the National Archives, but the bear will make some child in a hospital very happy. So, did you leave many friends there?"

"I've got a friend back at the hotel who left his legs there."

"Joe Dawson?" When the accuracy of the question drew a startled look, Matthew pointed out, "I was investigating you during that mess with Carl, remember. I thought you were hiding a felon. Joe Dawson was a friend of yours and it's rather obvious he's lost his legs. And he's the right age to have been in 'Nam. Army or Marines?"

"Marines."

"I'd believe that. What's he doing in D.C.? Keeping you out of trouble?"

"At the moment, coughing." _Because I dragged him to D.C. Because he didn't need to be flying across the country with that cold. Stubborn bastard. When is he going to quit pushing himself so hard?_

That drew a thoughtful look before the FBI agent commented in an unusually gentle voice, "He's mortal, MacLeod. They do get sick. And eventually they die. Worried about him, or just reminded?"

"Reminded," Duncan admitted reluctantly, grateful for the other immortal's presence. He didn't want to discuss Joe's illness and Tessa's death, or the way they had combined to spark his own contemplation of life, death, and relationships... but it was nice to have someone around who understood without needing to talk about it.

Besides which, it was too noisy to discuss anything, really. They had to wait for a bus to pass them before crossing Constitution avenue, and the roar of the engine as it accelerated past made speaking impossible. Both immortals stepped back quickly to avoid the sheet of water thrown up as the Metrobus went through a puddle formed by one of D.C.'s infamous potholes. When a break in the traffic came, Matthew caught the younger man's arm and tugged him across the crosswalk, sardonic sympathy in his eyes and the bare twist of a smile. "Come on, MacLeod. Dinner's waiting."

They walked past the Washington rush hour traffic in an amicable silence, occasionally separated by other pedestrians only to find themselves striding along side by side again seconds later. Metrobuses thundered past and cab horns blared while the drizzle strengthened to a steady stream of rain mixed indiscriminately with sleet as the temperatures continued to drop. Matthew neither commented on the rain nor moved to try and flag a cab, much to Duncan's relief. He needed to move, and somehow he also needed the quiet presence of the man walking at his side.

They simply strode along, silent and content in that quiet, through a city which felt solid enough to make even an immortal comfortable within its environs. To Duncan's eyes, used to Paris and London, to Madrid and Rome, the falling rain had no more effect on the sturdy buildings than the grey sky did on the clean lines of the Federalist architecture. He followed McCormick up 21st Street without demur, enjoying the other man's company as a perfect complement to the semisweet melancholy of the day. _Or maybe_, he smiled to himself, _you just wanted to find someone else who enjoys walking in the rain._

They crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and immediately turned to cross 21st as well. Duncan glanced at the exclusive restaurant, then at himself, and had to shake his head. "I look like a drowned rat, McCormick. Galileo is not going to let me in."

"The name's Matthew," was the other man's calm reply. "Try it."

"Matthew," Duncan repeated, amused and warmed by his reaction. "And it's Duncan, not MacLeod."

"Well, I wasn't going to call you Mac," the agent commented mildly. "And you're right, they're not going to let us in the main dining room. But the chef is a friend of mine; Roberto will make sure we get fed somehow. Come along, Duncan, let's see what's for dinner."

The maitre d'hôtel looked quite appropriately scandalized by Duncan's soaked state, until she took in the quality of the overcoat, and the silk shirt and tailored wool slacks under it, and saw Matthew McCormick standing behind him, looking barely more dry. "Mr. McCormick, what in the world happened?"

"It's raining," Matthew told her with dry irony. "I don't suppose you'd have some place out of the way where we wouldn't embarrass you while Roberto's food thaws us back out?"

"Your usual table, perhaps, sir?"

"That would be perfect." Unspoken comments twitched at the corners of Matthew's mouth as the maitre d' led them carefully along the edges of the restaurant which was beginning to fill up with men in three-piece suits and women in tailored outfits and heels. Controlled gestures of amusement or irony held themselves in reserve in his hands until he stuffed his fists into his jacket pocket to suppress them. Only when they had been shown the table and the maitre d' bustled off to tell the chef that his friend was there did McCormick let his ironic smile escape.

Their table was small, large enough for two if the waiter didn't let the plates build up between the appetizer and the entree, and it was situated off the hallway between the main dining room and the kitchen. Matthew pulled his coat off and hung it on the rack where the servers had been putting their foul weather gear. His suit jacket was rumpled along the waist, as if he habitually tucked his hands into the pockets, but he made no attempt to take it off. Instead, he reached for Duncan's dripping overcoat.

The Scot eyed the corner, the table, the conveniently located emergency exit, and couldn't help giving Matthew a knowing smile of his own. "I take it Roberto knows what you do for a living?" He handed over his coat without an argument. Matthew McCormick might be another immortal in the Game, but he had more honor than to steal a sword and then a head. Not like this.

"It's useful having friends who understand that I might need to leave in a hurry," the agent agreed, sinking into his chair and bracing his chin on one fist. His eyes were half-closed as he soaked up the heat, but somehow Duncan doubted he was missing much of anything.

A waiter who looked as if he might be from Northern Italy brought both water and empty wine glasses to the table. Duncan started to say something, but fell silent when Matthew shook his head once. After the young man left, Matthew commented ruefully, "I hope you weren't wanting a menu, Duncan, because we're not likely to get one. Roberto will feed us what he feeds us, I'm afraid."

"What happens to people you bring here who have allergies?"

"I tell the waiter."

The dry reply drew laughter, but Duncan fell silent again as he listened to the snatches of conversation from the other room. Trying to guess, from their clothes and their gestures, what other patrons did for a living had been a favorite pastime of his and Tessa's, one that had started when they were first dating in Paris. For that matter it was something of a running game with Methos, too. _Except that she was trying to get as close to the truth as possible. He always tries to come up with the most outrageous explanation possible, to make me laugh or argue with him._

A warm, sword-roughened hand caught his and squeezed lightly. Duncan looked up, startled out of his reverie, to see intent grey-green eyes watching him. Matthew looked... concerned?

"Rough day, Duncan MacLeod? That's twice you've vanished on me, now."

He started to evade, only to realize that the agent saw him too clearly to be easily put off. So he used part of the truth, saying, "Live long enough and some days are going to be." Only after he'd said it did Duncan realize that he'd picked up one of Methos' habits -- and one that drove him crazy, too.

Matthew shook his head, a crooked smile of sympathy on his face as he deftly changed the subject. "You're in for a treat, then. The food here is excellent. Have you ever had artichokes and caponata?"

The discussion slid into a amiable comparison of Italian cooking and Italian wines as they slowly began to warm up, and the Scot found himself enjoying the deft wit and easy Southern accent of the man across from him. He hadn't realized how much, though, until the waiter returned and he had to move back to give the man room to put down the appetizer. He'd been leaning forward, engrossed as much in the play of emotion across Matthew's face as the conversation.

In the distracted pause between the conversation's break and the first bite of food, Duncan found himself wondering what that stubbled beard would feel like under his hand, and his breath caught for a moment. Then the smell of hot food swung his attention away from that thought, and he could ignore the roller-coaster sensation from his stomach, which was insisting that the floor had momentarily dropped out from under him.

The first course was every bit as good as the other immortal had implied: slivers of olive oil-toasted bread topped with chopped, marinated tomato, and a bottle of pinot noir. And while Duncan had always known he was a sensualist, he hadn't expected McCormick to take such obvious pleasure in the food, in the contrast of vivid red tomatoes on gold-brown bread, and from the tangy flavor that came as much from the food as from the pleasure of tearing at it with teeth and jaw. When he realized he was staring, the Scot made himself look away.

Mushroom and tomato salad arrived within minutes of the appetizers' death, along with more wine. And while Duncan was still convincing himself that he'd imagined his reaction, that it was his preoccupation with Methos that had him paying such close attention to his behavior with another man, Matthew passed him the refilled glass of wine.

The heat from McCormick's hand startled him almost as much as the reaction it drew from him. It had been a completely innocuous touch, but Duncan's skin tingled everywhere the other man's fingers had touched him. He stumbled over what he'd been saying and lost the thread of the conversation for a moment as he focused on the glass, the tablecloth, anywhere but the source of his new confusion. When Duncan could speak coherently again, a matter of a few seconds, he looked up and found Matthew watching him. The steady grey-green gaze left him with a hollow feeling of anticipation in his stomach, and not for the food.

The wine glasses vanished with the empty salad plates, to Duncan's short-lived relief. New glasses came, filled with a crisp pinot gris, and a small plate of toasted focaccia. Perfectly innocent requests to pass the salt or the parmesan seemed to result in the same swift contact, and each time his own reaction startled Duncan almost more than the touch, leaving him farther and farther off balance.

By the time the entrée arrived and the conversation dropped off as the waiter arranged plates of mussels in white wine sauce, Duncan had given up and accepted the fact that Matthew McCormick was definitely flirting with him. And he was enjoying it immensely.

What first chagrined and then amused the Scot was that he wouldn't have taken nearly so long to admit it if Matthew had been female. The low, almost intimate tone, the way the other man kept leaning towards him over the table as if to hear conversational points, and the steady eye contact across the table... all this from a man who usually glanced away, listening as much to how the other person spoke as to what they said. _And you noticed those eyes are an odd shade of grey-green, didn't you, Duncan? Is Matthew flirting with you, or is he flirting back?_

Of course, now he had to decide what to do.

He knew that Matthew wouldn't press the issue, nor did he think this was more than a friendly offer to a friend in need of a night's comfort and mutual pleasure. The Southerner's warmth was tempting, Duncan didn't deny that. So was the chance to let down his guards with another immortal who would neither go for his head nor kiss and tell. The last time he'd been to bed with another man was 1926, and he and Cory had been very drunk... and extremely annoyed with Amanda. Alexei Voishin didn't count; that had been blackmail.

_So brush up on a few things, MacLeod, learn a few things, too, and maybe surprise the Old Man when you find him again. That is what you have in mind for him, after all_, Duncan reminded himself, pleased to find he had run out of second thoughts about becoming Methos' lover.

He chuckled, the day's melancholy mood evaporated by the heat coming from the other side of the table, and grinned as he realized one other thing. _I'm stacking the odds, listing every reason I should do this and not a single reason that I shouldn't. Tess, love... you always said you wanted me to find someone else after you died, that you didn't want me to be unhappy. What the hell, let's see if I still remember how to flirt._

*~*~*~*~*~*

Matthew McCormick contemplated the taller man in the silence which had lingered with the waiter's retreat, one eyebrow raised questioningly as he waited to see what Duncan would do next. The animated face across the table bore little relation to the soul-weary man he'd cajoled into having dinner with him.

_It's a pity I don't spend more time with the profilers; he's surprised me at just about every turn today. First he looked shell-shocked, so worn to the bone that he should almost have been one of the names on the Wall. Now he's definitely thawed out, in more ways than one. After that run-in we had over Carl, he's not one of the first people I'd have expected to start flirting with the arrival of the appetizer._

A wicked smile crossed his face momentarily. _Unless he just wants to make sure I buy dinner. Can't imagine why; the man is not poor. Handsome, yes; an interesting conversationalist when he's here, yes; poor, no. And speaking of not being here, I wonder what he's thinking about that's so fascinating? He looks speculative now, not like the weather is setting off aching bones. Keep teasing like this, MacLeod, and I do believe we're going to see just how serious you are._

"Did you vanish on me again, Duncan MacLeod?" Matthew took a sip of his wine to hide just how much attention he was paying to the answer.

"No, not at all," Duncan chuckled, mischief lighting his eyes. "Just thinking."

"Going for a reputation as an intellectual?" The Southerner deliberately softened the words to teasing rather than biting as a wry smile played across his face. _If more intellectuals looked like him, the colleges would be packed._

"Making sure I don't get a reputation for being dense. Hard-headed, maybe."

The slight emphasis on 'hard' drew a smile from Matthew, and he eyed the other man, wondering how much of a challenge he was going to be. His smile grew even more saturnine as he realized that Duncan had apparently decided to let him take the lead this evening. _Well, well. You're an accomplished flirt, Duncan MacLeod, but I wonder if you really know what you're doing? Or are you trusting me to show you? This may be a very interesting night indeed._

"I believe I'll drop that subject for now," Matthew chuckled. "We can take it back up later." He deliberately emphasized 'up' to make sure they were in fact understanding each other, but Duncan's immediate grin told him that wasn't a problem. By this point everything was starting to sound like innuendo, whether it was or not, which meant the rest of the meal was probably going to be highly entertaining. Some of it, however, was clearly deliberate; MacLeod's innocent look needed work.

A fact which was evident as he said, "Sounds good. Is the weather supposed to heat up anytime soon?"

The knowing smile when he mentioned the temperature was more than Matthew could resist. His voice sounded matter of fact, but the half-smile on his own face was the same one he used when discussing a feeble alibi with a suspect. "The forecast was for occasional patches of heavy blowing winds, intense localized heat inversions, and occasionally dense humidity, clearing by morning."

Duncan saluted him with the hand that wasn't holding the piece of bread, and then froze when Matthew deliberately teased him with a mouthful of pasta. The agent knew damn well what he must look like with his cheeks hollowed as he sucked the coiled pasta and sauce off of the fork and then tilted his head back to swallow, exposing that vulnerable stretch of throat....

Across the table, Duncan swallowed convulsively and reached for his water glass without looking at it. The taller man shifted uneasily in his seat, then shivered and looked even more distracted and unsettled than he already had. It was a very familiar squirm to Matthew's eye, one every man had done a few times in his life when cloth caught an erection. He smiled at Duncan's discomfort, wicked laughter in eyes and voice as he asked blandly, "I thought I suggested later? Do you really want to do this here?"

The Scot did manage to laugh before answering, "Not before we finish dinner, no. I probably need my strength." His voice was very husky as he spoke, deliberately seductive.

Two could play that game, though. "Save some room," Matthew suggested, his voice slower now and deeper as he emphasized the whiskey-rough tones and Southern accent. He could see the exact moment when Duncan caught his implication. A sudden idea of why he might need 'room' painted a flush across the Highlander's face as Matthew glanced at him over his wine glass and commented idly, "For dessert, of course."

"Of course." Duncan nodded and Matthew could almost see him contemplating positions and possibilities as he murmured, "Dessert," in a very distracted tone of voice.

"And after dinner drinks, I'd suspect," Matthew added in that same too-casual voice.

"Later," the Highlander grated. "Change the subject, hmm?"

"Certainly not politics," Matthew mused, taking pity on him for now. "I don't think discussing the President would help at the moment. Television?"

"There's anything to discuss?"

"A few good shows, certainly. Never enough. Let's try gossip. How is Carl doing?"

Matthew deliberately led the conversation around to his student, now training a student of his own down in Trinidad and Tobago, and from there to other immortals they both knew and had heard of. Claudia Jardine had come through Washington a few months earlier on tour, and Grace Chandel had testified in front of Congress for the World Health Organization only a couple weeks earlier. That discussion, with its attendant careful inquiries around mutual friends and enemies, carried them safely through dinner.

Dessert, however, got even farther out of hand.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The chef had sent out fresh fruit and ice-water to dip it in, following the Italian custom of washing the fruit at the last minute before eating it rather than risk discoloring the fruit by letting it sit after being cleaned. And while Duncan had spent time in Italy with Fitz and later with Gina and Robert, he'd forgotten just what kind of a show a dinner partner could make with ripe fruit, dripping with water as they lifted it from the bowl and with fruit juice after that first bite.... Somehow, there was no doubt in his mind that Matthew had wandered through Italy once or twice.

_Seduction by dinner -- he's as bad as Amanda_, he decided, squirming in his seat as that ripe mouth closed around a quarter of a pear. Juice traced Matthew's lips as he pulled the fruit away, and Duncan watched, mesmerized, as the other man licked the juice off his lips first, then off the side of his hand where the fruit was still dripping and the liquid threatened his cuffs. It was the most erotic thing MacLeod had seen in quite a while.

Somehow, he made it through dessert, too busy watching the show the other man put on to realize what he looked like as he dipped grapes and dates into the water and popped them into his own mouth, sucking the excess juice off the tips of his fingers as he withdrew them. Only the quick visit by the harried chef who wanted to see who Matthew had brought in this time cooled the atmosphere between them. Duncan had to smile when he realized he was reminding himself that yes, he had gotten laid sometime in the last month or so -- really!

At last they escaped to the sidewalk again, warm and dry, but with Duncan, at least, wondering if this was actually a good idea. He hadn't realized how badly he wanted human contact... but it wasn't fair to leave Matthew thinking this was something it wasn't.

Until Matthew asked without looking, "So, Duncan? Do I walk you to your hotel, or do we go get my car?"

The Scot looked at the sky, which had cleared off to cold and grey but had at least quit raining and misting over the course of the long dinner. And too, he considered the deliberately nonchalant tone of the other man's voice before agreeing, "It's a decent night to walk. Which way is your car?"

"We should probably take Pennsylvania, I'd think," Matthew replied, tucking his hands into his coat pockets as they set off down the street.

"And the cold might actually keep us from going up in flames," the Scot added casually, grinning.

"Or too soon," came that whiskey-rough voice. "Wouldn't want that."

"Sir," Duncan teased him in a passable Southern accent, "are you making me an offer?"

"I certainly intend to have you doing hard time."

That drew a muffled snort of laughter. "Don't you get tired of lines like that?"

"I assure you, I know all of them. I rather think I'll keep trying them on you until one of them works," Matthew replied, audibly amused.

"What counts?"

"I suspect we can come to an... equitable agreement." He paused as they swung around a trio of smartly-dressed women trying to catch a taxi. "Shall we discuss this when we get to the car?"

"Yeah, you do have to work here, don't you," Duncan nodded. "It can wait."

So they walked on, letting the food settle as they enjoyed the relatively-empty streets. Christmas wasn't close enough for shoppers to be out, and it was a bit cold for tourists. The two men strolled down Pennsylvania, past trendy restaurants full of executives and diplomats, past expensive hotels and high-rent offices. At I Street, Matthew swung east, and when Duncan gave him a curious look, he just shrugged. "It's shorter. Or do you still need to walk things out?"

"No, I think I'm fine."

"Second thoughts, MacLeod?"

"I liked Duncan better," he said mildly.

"Duncan, then. I suppose I could cuff you. For your own good, that is."

"Hmm. Am I going to have to assume the position?"

A secretive smile crossed the other immortal's face, but he only said, "The parking garage is videotaped. For security, I understand."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"Do that."

Silence kept them company across the parking lot, into the car, and out onto the street. Sultry Latin music played on the radio, rich brass turned far enough down not to be too distracting but high enough to be heard over the windshield wipers. Neither of them said anything as Matthew drove. Duncan, at least, didn't want to ratchet the heat any higher before they could get to the privacy of Matthew's apartment or house. And Matthew... the other immortal simply drove with a casual competence, but he kept his eyes on the road instead of glancing occasionally at his passenger, and both hands carefully on the wheel, although the traffic wasn't that bad. It was oddly reassuring to Duncan to realize that he wasn't the only one burning close to his limits, that a man as contained and controlled as Matthew McCormick could be as affected as Duncan was by... whatever this was between them.

The streets had changed as they went, from the crowded throughways of Washington proper, to a brief merge and flow onto 395 South, then off again at Semitary Road in Alexandria, Virginia, where the lane changes to get off the interstate made Duncan grateful they were both immortal. At last they moved into a winding set of streets, turning again and again as Matthew worked his way into an area of upper-middle class housing, until he eventually pulled into a paved driveway and turned the car off.

Duncan studied the two-story house as a distraction from the aching desire gnawing at him, searing his cock in the finally-dry wool pants. Compared to the heat radiating from the man in the driver's seat, the sight didn't register. Shadowed dark eyes turned to study him, a half-smile on Matthew's lips which blossomed into pleasure as he read something in Duncan's face that the Scot hadn't known was there. Still wrapped in silence, they both got out of the car and walked through the drizzle to the door.

The Southerner waved him in over the threshold, an offhand, instinctive gesture of courtesy to a guest, and Duncan had just enough time to take in a house which was lighter toned than he'd expected -- and what had he expected? Dark wood, and maroon walls or hunter green, excessively masculine? He turned back to say something, 'Nice house,' probably, and was taken by surprise when Matthew stepped into him, one hand catching the nape of Duncan's neck and pulling him firmly onto the Southerner's mouth.

His own lips had been parted to speak and it took no effort at all for Matthew to plunder his mouth, using both hands now to angle Duncan's head more precisely, giving him just the leverage he wanted. The Scot moaned in his throat under the assault, arms wrapping helplessly around Matthew's waist as the shorter man drank in his gasps, held him still, and continued to learn every nook and corner of Duncan's mouth. An agile tongue traced Duncan's teeth, teased the inside of his lips, dueled with his own tongue, before lapping delicately at the sensitive spot on the roof of his mouth where hot food always seemed to blister.

All the concentration Matthew usually put into solving his cases had just shifted to finding every erogenous area on and in Duncan's mouth, apparently. His preoccupation bordered on obsession as the FBI agent pulled back barely far enough to nip and suck at Duncan's lower lip, at the corner of his mouth, back to the lower lip, before tugging Duncan's head back to bite down squarely on his throat. A mortal would have been left with a hickey for days; to an immortal, the sharp teeth over his windpipe and jugular were fear and trust and passion blended into a single heady cocktail of adrenaline and endorphins that poured through the Scot's blood and straight to his rigid cock. All Duncan could do was press tighter against the tormenting body in front of him, head arching back to give even more access to the devouring mouth which was eating him alive as his body tried to meld itself from chest to thighs against the muscled form bracing and controlling him.

The sharp pressure against his upper arm barely registered until Matthew pulled back from him, his hands still holding Duncan firmly in place. Somehow the Southerner had enough composure to smile at him, lips swollen from their enthusiastic attentions to Duncan's skin as he mentioned, "You do know that a concealed blade over four inches is illegal, Mr. MacLeod?" His hips swayed just enough to press their cocks together for a moment before he went on, "I do believe I'm going to have to strip search you."

The formal address had startled Duncan. Followed by the blatant innuendo and lechery, he found himself with no choice but to laugh and the motion jarred his arm against that same sharp object in Matthew's coat. "And the gun isn't concealed, Mr. McCormick?"

"That's Agent McCormick," Matthew told him, hands flexing and teasing against Duncan's scalp and neck as he looked the other immortal up and down. "I'm supposed to have it, I assure you."

"Well, I'm not about to lose this 'weapon'," Duncan laughed, glancing down first at the blatant bulge in his pants and then at the tented front of Matthew's charcoal-grey slacks.

"No, I suppose not," the other man mused. "Do I need to use a come-along, or are you going to come peacefully?"

"Does screaming count?"

"I'll remember you're noisy," Matthew murmured. "Upstairs, Duncan. Now."

The Scot tilted his head, his own voice rough with passion and protests half-swallowed when the other man's kiss had ceased. "Are you giving orders?"

"Tonight? Yes. Coat, Duncan." A single quick motion of his tilted head indicated the coat closet beside the door, and Matthew squeezed the back of Duncan's neck once before releasing him. He stripped his own trench coat off and hung it up before reaching for Duncan's with an unyielding air.

The taller Scot obeyed before he'd thought about it, and only realized that when the little voice in his mind screamed that he'd just given up his sword to another immortal. All he could manage to ask was, "How old are you?"

"Pushing eight hundred, youngster. And no, I don't need Viagra." Matthew's hand rested solidly against the small of Duncan's back, guiding him up the stairs.

"Eight...? I didn't know that."

They'd made it up the stairs and left through a door into a large, open bedroom before the older man commented, "You didn't need to. Strip, Duncan."

Something about that Southern voice giving orders, the juxtaposition of the stark commands with his given name that no one had used much since Tessa's death, shredded his resistance. Duncan found himself unbuttoning his shirt and draping it over a nearby chair, then sitting long enough to unlace and remove the currently fashionable hiking boots that he'd worn against the rain. When he stood to remove his pants, the lamp on the nightstand painted Matthew's naked torso in shadows and highlights.

The other man's shirt and undershirt already lay over the arm of the easy chair by the window, on top of the rumpled suit jacket and a leather harness that had held his gun. As Duncan watched, fascinated by the play of the muscle he had known that suit must conceal, Matthew put his gun and badge in the nightstand drawer and toed off his shoes. Without turning around, the agent repeated, "Duncan. Strip."

Jarred back into motion, the Scot checked to make sure the boots were actually off rather than make a fool of himself by falling over when he peeled off his pants. But something about the angles of the other man's back, the balance of shoulder to waist and the clean line of muscles down along the spine, the subtle curve of his ass where the fine wool of the slacks clung as he bent over the nightstand, nearly stopped him again.

The rich slide of fabric against his erection as Duncan released the zipper on his own trousers and eased the silky briefs off and down made him suck in a surprised gasp of air. He hadn't realized just how much the prolonged arousal had affected him, and the shock was both unexpected and a welcome distraction that somehow eased some of the tension burning within his blood.

Duncan toed his socks off, one hand lightly on the back of the chair for balance as he glanced over at Matthew and nearly froze. Only the realization that standing mostly undressed and balanced on one foot would have made him look like an idiot kept him moving. But the side view, the long line of hip to thigh to calf as Matthew bent over to step out of his own pants, almost undid him. His skin held more color than Duncan had somehow expected on a Federal employee, and no real tan lines either, he somehow noticed, and then the other man was straightening up, his own erection obvious in profile, and that growling voice was issuing orders. "Bed, Duncan."

And he finally looked past the nightstand to the heavy wood bed, an old Colonial four-poster tall enough that a shorter person would have needed steps. His pulse trip-hammered as his body finally admitted that, yes, for the first time in his very long life, he was going to get fucked tonight... and that he wanted it very badly. Fear and anticipation swirled through him, shifting and fighting for preeminence with every beat of his heart, and for a moment he couldn't move. Grey-green eyes met brown from the other end of the bed, seeing more of him than Duncan truly wanted in that instant; then that same pleased smile bloomed again.

"Duncan, Duncan, didn't anyone ever tell you? I'm an officer of the law. You don't seem to be the lawbreaking type, so get in that bed and prepare to do everything the nice officer tells you to." The amused, drawling, bad pick-up line broke his tension and Duncan chuckled and took the three steps necessary to get to the bed.

"Whatever happened to 'Up against the wall'?"

"Mattresses are more comfortable," Matthew pointed out. "Unless you just like sleeping on top of the comforter, peel it back. Lights on or off?"

"I get a choice?" Duncan chuckled again as he pulled the blankets and sheets down to the end of the bed.

"Not anymore." Matthew moved to stand behind him, pressed tightly against Duncan's thighs, his ass, his back, arms coming around his waist as that dangerously skillful mouth nipped at the exposed nape of the Scot's neck. "I like the haircut, by the way," he murmured when he came up from the bite. "Much better access to all these... tender spots."

Duncan groaned, legs spreading for better balance which only pressed Matthew's erection more tightly against the cleft of his ass. That one sensation overwhelmed him, turned to a need he wasn't used to, an emptiness that startled him with its immediate ache. Behind him that same knowing, rough-textured voice promised, "Soon enough, Duncan. Soon enough. There's no hurry, we've got all night."

"Yes, there is a hurry," he growled. "I'm about to explode."

Strong hands turned him around, his skin pebbled with goose bumps as the other man's heat pulled away, and he braced himself on the mattress while the wood of the frame pressed against his thighs. Matthew's hands slid down his waist to take up an unshakable grip on his hips, and the other man went to his knees in front of Duncan. The controlled grace of the motion was beautiful in its own right but the heat and pressure of the mouth on his cock wiped that beauty from his attention.

Instead of swallowing him whole, Matthew tilted his head, light tangling in those brown curls as he wrapped his mouth as far as he could around the base of Duncan's cock and slowly began to drag his head up. Steady suction tantalized the Highlander, reminding him uncomfortably of the image of Matthew devouring the pasta earlier as he looked down at the hollowed cheek, the half-closed eyes moving ever closer to the swollen purple crown of his cock. His hips thrust forward uncontrollably as Duncan gave himself over to the sensations, head dropping back and his eyes closing as that mouth moved deliberately upward.

Matthew's hands on his hips were an almost bruising force as he held Duncan upright, pressing him solidly back against the bed. His progress was torturously slow, slick heat from that wet mouth compensating for the occasional, deliberate glide of teeth over sensitive skin. A single, flickering figure eight with his tongue brought a shuddering gasp from Duncan, and still he moved upward a bare fraction of an inch at a time it seemed.

Duncan's hands tightened on the sheets and mattress as the pleasure spiraled up and all his blood spiraled down into his groin with a dizzying speed. He knew instinctively that grabbing Matthew, even just bracing himself on the other man's shoulders, would stop his mouth and even the thought of a pause drew a tortured groan from him.

And then that fiery, devouring mouth slid up over his foreskin, teeth barely scraping and tongue soothing the marks as it delved under the loose skin, collecting the bittersweet first drops, and swirling over the head before Matthew continued to slide down at the same unnervingly slow pace, enveloping the entire head in wet heat and suction. The combination of frustration and release and overwhelming skill tore the orgasm out of Duncan as Matthew's lips moved over the now stroked-back foreskin and down onto the shaft of his cock. From the arches of his feet to his jaw, every muscle in his body went rigid as he screamed and came, hips trying to strain forward against the immovable hands and arms holding him in place.

When Duncan could feel again, and sometime before he could really think, he absently noticed through half-closed eyes that the room had tilted somehow, and that the sheets under his back were very cool against his overheated skin. Equally hot flesh pressed against the insides of his thighs, shifting them up and apart as the shadows over his body changed; he looked up into intent grey-green eyes as Matthew leaned over his chest to kiss him. The other man was balanced on hands and knees over Duncan's body, spreading his legs as he devoured the Scot's mouth again. The vulnerability of his position seemed a minor thing compared to the pleasure of that ravaging kiss and the security of having Matthew McCormick between him and the rest of the world, if only for a moment.

Matthew's kiss forced his head up and back into the pillow, a motion as helpless as the Scot's entire body seemed at the moment. He felt almost drugged, lethargic with pleasure and release. It took more effort than he liked to raise his arms and slide his hands down the other man's back. To his surprise, Matthew chuckled against his jaw and murmured, "Later, Duncan. Put your hands down. I'll take care of things."

"You already did," Duncan managed to say, trying to drag himself into something that resembled coherency.

"Mmm-hmm, and I'm not done. Hands down, Duncan, or I will cuff you."

That threat dropped his hands to his sides immediately, all too aware that the older immortal would do just that. Matthew's hands stroked along the undersides of his arms, pressing them up until the Southerner murmured, "Grab the headboard. Don't let go until I tell you that you can."

"But...."

"Duncan, do it." That same half-smile crooked his mouth when the Scot obeyed him, and Matthew muttered, "I'm a fine, upstanding officer of the law, Duncan. Lie back, so I can protect and serve, hmm?"

"Upstanding is right," the younger immortal groaned as Matthew's cock brushed against his stomach. "And this isn't in your juris--" He broke off when that insistent mouth lapped at his throat again, tracing patterns squarely over the tendon and jugular.

"Let me worry about that," Matthew breathed into his ear. "Relax and enjoy."

Matthew waited patiently until Duncan's breathing evened out again, his body relaxing into the mattress as he gave over control again. The older immortal moved back, settling his weight onto his thighs as he knelt between the Highlander's legs. One hand stroked along Duncan's chest, tracing a constant, firm 'v' from nipple to belly and back up to the other nipple as he reached for the mineral oil on the nightstand.

The top of the bottle popped open with a single easy motion and Matthew poured a generous amount of the liquid into the votive candle holder he'd been meaning to refill. He capped the bottle again from a long-standing habit towards neatness before dipping his fingers into the impromptu bowl. Still gentling Duncan with one hand, he reached down and lightly traced the Scot's opened thighs with his other, rubbing oil into trembling muscles.

"Shh. Just relax, Duncan. You'll like this," he promised, pleased when the other man's eyes closed and he deliberately took a deep breath before spreading his legs a bit more. "That's it," Matthew crooned, letting the Southern accent get thicker and lower, seducing the Scot with his voice as he reached for more oil on his hand.

This time he slid his palm along the long muscle of the inner thigh, up to the crease of delicate skin where thigh and groin met. When the only response that drew was a shuddering sigh, Matthew kept going, cupping Duncan's balls in his slick hand and massaging gently. That drew another sigh from the Scot, his head arching back into the pillows to expose his neck, while strong hands clenched and eased around the thick spindles of the headboard. Duncan's instant surrender summoned that pleased smile back to Matthew's face as his hand eased lower still.

He traced a light line along the skin behind the younger man's balls, teasing him with an oiled fingertip that moved in a constant pattern from the scrotum down to the puckered entry to Duncan's body and back, pressing a little more firmly at the bottom of the circle each time. After a few repetitions, the Scot's muscles untensed and Matthew chuckled softly. "Good."

While the other man was still relaxed, he slid one finger in and waited out the involuntary flinch and contraction, other hand still rubbing soothingly along the broad chest and flat stomach laid out in front of him. "Easy, Duncan. I think you'll like this. I've been right so far."

"Mmm." The response wasn't particularly coherent, but Matthew watched, pleased, as the other man took a deep breath and relaxed again. The degree of trust he was being granted was something of an ego trip, but it was a responsibility as well. Duncan wasn't one to give over control to just anyone, and Matthew had no intention of betraying or disappointing him.

However, the younger man had been almost deferential both during dinner and afterwards, and gossip from other immortals over the past few years suggested strongly that Duncan needed this degree of release. _No, Duncan, you are going to learn to let someone else handle everything, and I think this might just do it. So long as I can keep you properly intimidated that is_, Matthew decided. _Besides, after the way you were rubbing up against my cock earlier, I want this, too._

So he waited, still massaging the younger man's torso while he got a feel for the pattern of tension and release in the muscle clenched around his finger. When Duncan relaxed, Matthew pressed further into him, and then back out, slowly getting him used to the movement and friction. It didn't take long before the younger man's hips were flexing minutely, pressing up and back against Matthew's hand, and he withdrew to get more oil on his fingers before starting again, easing the tension and circling as his finger moved in and out. He added a second finger, heard a gasp, and waited out the clenched muscles. This time Duncan took a deep breath without prompting, releasing the tensed muscles deliberately.

"Is this where I ask if you're breaking and entering?" the Scot teased him, his voice remarkably steady as far as Matthew was concerned.

"I prefer to think of it as trespassing," the agent chuckled. "Of course, since I've been given permission to enter, I suppose it's more like, oh, say, an exchange of friendly fire?"

Duncan laughed, too, relaxing still more. "If you say so. You're the expert." And then Matthew's fingers pressed further still, flexed, and pleasure spiked up his spine in one long, white bolt that blinded him behind his closed eyes. He never heard his own choked cry of pleasure, only felt that strong, callused hand on his chest settle even more firmly into place, grounding him against an ecstatic sensation he hadn't known his body harbored.

A second movement deep within him sent that same shock pouring up his back again, and this time it ricocheted down, heating his suddenly flushed skin, burning at his nipples, and pouring blood back into his cock. That quickly he was hard again, shocked by the speed of his response and by the intensity of the pleasure. Without thinking about it he raised his hips, trying to get those fingers farther within him and receive more of that obliterating rapture.

The older man's fingers slid out of him, a shockingly empty feeling after that earlier pleasure until he felt Matthew's tongue part his lips, lapping briefly at the corners of his mouth before he drank Duncan down in another of those devouring kisses that were almost orgasmic in and of themselves. He was trying to protest against Matthew's mouth when something hard and hot and blunt, thicker than Matthew's fingers, pressed firmly against him. Alarm sparked through him, but his body knew exactly what it wanted and he moved down onto Matthew's cock.

For a moment the pressure was almost too much, but a strong hand guided his leg up to wrap around Matthew's waist and he took a deep breath as the other man slid into his body. This intruder was wider than a couple of fingers, if a bit more flexible; Duncan couldn't stop the flinch that tightened his muscles and wrapped his fingers more tightly around the wood of the headboard. But that insistent mouth continued to give non-verbal assurances of pleasure, and he took a deep breath and tried to relax.

It was a slow invasion, although not as slow as the earlier envelopment of his cock had been, and it was all Duncan could do to allow it. The temptation to flinch, to run, was becoming overwhelming as his body was opened further and further. Too many new things at once poured over him, trembling through his muscles as his most paranoid instincts protested the invasion, the surrender, Matthew's position of control over and inside him. But honor held him where he was, and faith in the older immortal's honor, so similar to his own (_and how long have you known him to make that judgment?!_ that little voice shrieked), and trust in the promises given by that purring Southern voice, the hands on his skin, and the carefully controlled surge and flex within his body. So he relaxed as best he could, trying to accept the new sensations.

The reward was almost immediate as Matthew shifted, pushing up on his arms to move that extra inch further... and pressed against/slid over that spot deep within him. That same lightning-stroke of pleasure speared him again, once as Matthew moved over him, and again as he pulled back a bare fraction. A third stroke as his friend slid further in, and then Duncan was past counting the motions, the flashes behind his eyes which came with the same shocking inevitability and unpredictable speed as a quickening. Only this was a quickening without the other mind battering at his, release and surrender without loss of pride or fear of death, all the spoken and unspoken promises fulfilled in excess of anything he had ever expected....

Duncan realized that the voice crying out for 'more', wailing 'please' and 'God' and 'don't stop,' was his own. The shuddering panting was Matthew's because the other immortal had released Duncan's mouth a while ago, rearing back as he moved in and out of him. And then instinct drove the Scot to press up with the leg that wasn't wrapped around Matthew, changing the angle a little more, and he was shrieking almost silently as he came again.

Matthew had watched the other man's apprehension appear, seen the wordless struggle between fear and trust, and the arrival of pleasure. When ecstasy transfigured Duncan's face, he let himself drop back down to his elbows, buried his face and teeth in the Scot's shoulder and fucked him even harder for the little while it took until he came, too, in a long, violent orgasm that spilled out in racking shudders from the base of his spine. Spent, all he could do was shiver on top of Duncan as the control he'd exerted on himself finally took its toll and he had to wait for the pleasure and effort to ease before he could move or really think.

He barely noticed when Duncan reached up and wrapped his arms around him, cramped hands flexing against his back as they finally released the headboard. Duncan slid his leg down from Matthew's waist and they both groaned when that changed Matthew's position within the Scot. Duncan's cock was trapped between them, as well, and he shuddered at the additional stimulation on over-sensitized flesh.

Matthew laughed against his throat, a husky sound of frustration and satiation, before growling, "Hold still, then." He pushed back up on shaking arms and instructed, "Deep breath, Duncan. Now, relax again," as he slowly withdrew from the younger immortal's body. That done, he managed to collapse next to the Scot rather than on top of him again.

Time slid past them, measured only by the rapid easing of breath and heartbeat back down to normal. There were no candles to mark time by burning down or simply flickering, no moonlight in that storm-filled sky to move across the windows; each man regretted that, and knew without having to ask that the other would understand perfectly. Eventually, though, the unpleasant stickiness drying on his cock and belly drove Matthew up and to the bathroom to get cloths to clean them both up.

Duncan glanced at him, head propped up on the one arm which seemed to be as much as he was willing to move just yet. "You were right," he mentioned calmly.

"What, that you'd enjoy it? At least you certainly seemed to," Matthew told him as he tried to clean the taller man up. He was starting to think a shower was going to be a necessity.

"No, that if you tried enough of those God-awful lines on me, one of them would work."

Matthew looked up to see the laughter dancing in Duncan's eyes and the smile that transformed him from handsome to beautiful. Then he started grinning himself. "I didn't even pull out the worst ones, you realize."

"You've got to be joking," the Scot laughed. "They get worse? I thought 'friendly fire' was bad enough."

"You were the one who mentioned 'breaking and entering'," Matthew pointed out. "And at least I didn't tell you to spread 'em. Come on, Duncan, I think we're going to have to get a shower. Unless you just want to wake up stuck to the sheets, that is."

"Hey, I'm not the one who was talking about 'hard time'. However, is there room in your shower for two?"

Matthew extended a hand to help pull the other man up to a sitting position. "I think I can extend visiting privileges."

"Oh, God," Duncan groaned. "Don't start again. Please."

"What, can't take what you were dishing out, MacLeod?"

"I thought you were dishing it out," the Scot teased him. The set of his mouth was innocent but his eyes were all too aware of what he'd said as he swung his feet over the side of the bed.

"You know," Matthew said thoughtfully, not moving from the bed yet, "you were harboring a known fugitive. That's accessory after the fact. Call it, oh, two to five, with time off for good behavior--"

"Now, wait," Duncan interrupted indignantly, "that was self-defense and you know it...."

"--so the only question," Matthew went on as if there wasn't a Scot fuming stark naked in his bedroom, "is whether that's minutes, hours... or times?" He grinned abruptly, the deadly serious agent façade exploded by that mischievous smile. Duncan gave him an outraged glare which barely suppressed his own smile as the agent continued, "What do you think?"

"I think," and Duncan turned his back on Matthew, "that if you don't quit making jokes that bad we may have to see if the bathroom door locks... and whether I could run the hot water out before you pick the lock."

"And if I stop?" the agent asked thoughtfully, unworried by Duncan's deliberate pace toward the bathroom.

"Then maybe we'll see if the South will rise again," came the growling tease.

"Right. You, sir, are an attractive nuisance," Matthew chuckled. "And if you think," he muttered more quietly to himself as he followed his visitor to the bathroom, "that you're going to get control of the evening, Duncan MacLeod, then I think it's going to be a very entertaining night."

*~*~*~*~*~*

Joe Dawson studied his friend and assigned immortal from half-closed eyes as he pretended to be closer to sleep than he actually was. Mac hadn't come back to the hotel the night before; the Watcher knew this because of the simple fact that he'd called around seven or so to see if he was going to have company for dinner or not. And when he called around eleven, awake and feverish, restless and irritable for company, Duncan still hadn't been answering. So the Watcher had spent the night worrying that the other man had taken a challenge and possibly lost....

_Five years since Tessa died and Rich ended up in the Game... he could have been distracted enough to lose, God help us all. I mean, yeah, I'd have understood it if he'd been out walking all night or something and forgot to call, but he still scared the hell out of me. Instead the irritating SOB shows up this morning, bearing breakfast and looking well and thoroughly laid. I swear, if we weren't friends...._

_And now he's talking about going on to New York when I'm feeling better, spending some time with Connor and doing some 'research'. God only knows what he's up to. I'm glad to see him lightening up again, but, Jesus, he scared the hell out of me last night._

The phone rang, startling Joe who hadn't given his new number to anyone yet and had absolutely no intention of answering it. The Watchers could call him on his cell phone, thanks; they didn't need to know that Duncan MacLeod was paying for his hotel room. He was not getting shot again. Although there had been times during this cold when it had seemed like a viable alternative.

Some shading of Mac's voice snagged his attention away from his own thoughts. An undertone of laughter, and an odd sense of... compliance? Whoever he was talking to had apparently known enough to call Joe's room looking for Duncan MacLeod, but this wasn't Connor calling from New York, not from the conversation.

"... No, it wasn't a problem. ... You are? Don't they ever give you a break? I thought you just finished one.... No, I know exactly how that is," and his voice was more serious now. "Right. I think we're heading to New York on Sunday."

The Highlander listened for a little longer before saying quietly, "I know. But I've thought enough; it's resolved. .... I'm fine now. Thank you for that. For everything. ... All right. Take care of yourself, my friend."

"Who was that?" Joe asked when he hung up the phone.

"A friend I had dinner with last night," Duncan told him, one eyebrow coming up in surprise -- whether at Joe's question or because he'd been listening to what was definitely a private conversation, the Watcher couldn't say. Then Mac's expression shifted to pure mischief, and Joe was torn between the pleasure of seeing his friend act more like his old self and the uncomfortable certainty that some form of havoc was heading his way.

All Mac asked, though, was, "Why?"

"C'mon, Mac, do I look like an idiot?" the Watcher snorted even as he braced himself for whatever the immortal was up to this time. _What the hell, it's good to see him like this again. 'Bout damn time, too. One of these days, he and the Old Man are gonna be on speaking terms again, and then maybe they'll both act like human beings again._

"Not last time I looked," Mac told him calmly.

The little smile hovering around his mouth was a perfect indicator to Joe that his friend was going to dodge any questions about that phone call. His Watcher oath, not to mention his own stubborn streak, goaded him to try anyway. "Come on, MacLeod. You don't show up for dinner; you don't call and badger me about my medicine last night when you're the world's worst Mother Hen, and you show up this morning looking like it was one helluva night.... So what's her name?"

Duncan was smiling, a fond and mischievous look that said the memory was good and Joe Dawson wasn't going to be let in on it. "Oh, someone you know, Dawson. And I promised I'd tell you about any fights. This wasn't a challenge. Forget it."

"You mean I'm gonna have to dig this out myself?"

"Mmm-hmm." The immortal grinned at him. "You've been saying you needed a distraction. Enjoy."

Joe shook his head, trying his best to look fierce and intimidating when he was all too aware that his nose was red and his eyes swollen. _Fuck._ "MacLeod, I'll get you for this when I'm feeling better."

"When you're feeling better," Duncan told him, "I'll have back-up. Think you're up to catching a train on Sunday?"

"Not if it teams you up with Connor," his Watcher groused. "C'mon, Mac, you know perfectly well I'd rather travel by train; the legroom's better. Get out of here, you bum, and go make the reservations. I'm gonna nap and get well, and figure out what the hell happened. Sure you don't want to tell me? I could just make something up, y'know."

"Fortunately for me," Duncan chuckled, "you're too honest for that. Sorry, Joe, but like I keep telling you, I get a life, too."

"Right, right, get outta here, you." After his immortal had left, still grinning, Joe rolled across the bed to dig in his suitcase. "Someone I know, huh, Mac? We'll see. I may figure this out yet." He pulled out a notepad and started thinking about which of Mac's female friends, mortal and immortal, might be in D.C. "I know he's not serious. If this was serious, I wouldn't have to dig; I'd be hearing about her all the way to New York."

He paused, growing thoughtful, then said more slowly, "Actually, maybe I'd better add the men back into the list, the way he and Adam have been circling each other the last few years. I seem to remember something from Mac's chronicles in the '20s that said Amanda threw a jealous fit at him and Cory one time. And come to think about it, that sounded more like the way he talks to men.

"What the hell, whoever it was, it's good to see you grinning again, Duncan MacLeod," he muttered fondly as he worked. "You can be a stubborn, pain in the ass immortal... but you're a lot of fun."

*~*~*~*~*~*

Thomas Jefferson looked out from his pedestal to the mostly empty rotunda as Duncan wandered the open area, reading familiar quotations and waiting for the rain to let up. Almost no one wanted to tour the monuments on a day this wet; even the attendants from the Park Service had retreated to the gift shop downstairs. As he walked across the open breezeway of columns, a splash of cold water hit the back of his neck and drew a shudder from him that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with a flash of memory: Matthew had bitten down just there at one point.

Duncan flushed, remembering the feel of the other man's hands on his back, the line of bites and kisses that had started at the nape of his neck and ended much farther down. _And then the bastard stopped; said he wasn't sure I had enough control to hold still._ The Scot chuckled. _You're a sneaky, manipulative bastard, Matthew McCormick. Reminds me of someone else I know._

For a moment, though, he didn't hear the Southerner threatening to stop, but Methos' voice instead, and Duncan was immediately grateful for the thick folds of his coat. The instant erection would have been very embarrassing if another school group had come through the rotunda about then. Bright color stained his face as he remembered a few sparring sessions in the dojo and just how tightly Methos could wrap his hands around an arm, or a wrist. His wayward mind insisted on playing with the idea of that same strength pinning him against the comforter of his bed in Seacouver, and another shudder rippled through him. Too, the image of Methos' paler skin against that dark green fabric told Duncan that he'd been paying as much attention to the Old Man as he had to Matthew, but without admitting it to himself.

Memories of games played with Tessa, of black and red silk scarves against the golden tan of her skin, flashed through him, and he remembered ruefully that he'd been in control then. _ No question who was in charge last night. Matthew rolled over me like a London fog, until I didn't know which way was up. I didn't care, either. Last night was... I don't know when I've come that hard. And I haven't slept that deeply since Rich died, either. I needed to let go with someone else, and never knew that was what I needed._

Duncan stared at the moisture that slid down the marble walls like condensation sliding down the inevitable beer bottle in Methos' hand and found himself wondering about times when he'd caught the oldest immortal watching him. Those green eyes could be so unreadable in their speculations, studying Duncan as if wondering what he'd do this time, if.... _And why do I remember him looking at me like that after the mess with Keane? And after Ingrid's death? What would I have done if he'd just taken me in hand the way Matthew did?_ The Scot snorted at the thought. _Damn if I know, and that may be why he didn't do anything._

The rain was letting up finally, the drumming against the roof sliding down to a fainter thrum as the water came down in drops instead of sheets. Across the green, a party of students apparently considered it enough of a respite to dart from shelter towards the monument and Duncan chuckled as he strode out into the wet himself. There might be peace in the storm, but Jefferson was about to be surrounded by a maelstrom of noise.

The thought of Methos issuing orders to him with the same casual humor and complete expectation of obedience that Matthew had used certainly wasn't giving Duncan any peace. Keeping him aroused, oh, yes, but not... peaceful. The Scot laughed again as he moved across the wet grass. _Now I just have to figure out how to get the Old Man into a bed and throw myself under his mercy...._

The Freudian slip in his own thoughts pulled another grin out of him. _I wonder how Matthew knew this about me, when I didn't?_ He glanced in the direction of the Hoover building, despite knowing from the morning's phone call that the agent was long gone by now, called out to an urgent case in Baltimore. _I don't know, but I owe you, Matthew McCormick. Thank you._ And he threw a salute in the direction of his 'commanding officer' of one night, grinning at the latest bad pun and resolved to tell the other immortal about it one of these days....

  


  
_~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~ _   


  


  
_Comments, Commentary &amp; Miscellanea:_   


1\. All information on Abraham Lincoln is as accurate as I could make it.

2\. Matthew McCormick is from the 5th season episode "Manhunt." Ceirdwyn appeared in "Take Back the Night" (3rd season); the Watcher CD identifies her as Matthew's teacher.

3\. Thanks to Shrew for all the information on Washington; errors are mine and (I hope) deliberate, for plot purposes.

4\. The menu came from perusal of _The Frugal Gourmet Cooks Italian_.

5\. And round two of the Innuendo Wars (patent pending ::g::) is now up; the link's below. These things are just way too much fun to write! Many thanks go to the Tuesday Night Beer 'n' Burger Betas for all the innuendo suggestions and the legal terms that I'm still gleefully corrupting.


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